Tales of Rashemen: Maiden: Childhood
by Sushi-san85
Summary: With a sudden and uneasy peace between Rashemen and Thay, what future is in store for the land of spirits, berserkers and masked witches? Can the next generation, led by a witch named Vanya, shape a better future for themselves? Read and find out.
1. Prologue: Touch of War

**Summary:** With a sudden and uneasy peace between Rashemen and Thay, what future is in store for the land of spirits, berserkers and masked witches? Can the next generation, led by a witch named Vanya, shape a better future for themselves? Forgotten Realms story.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the fan characters mentioned within this story, as well as the overall story concept. Anything else belongs to Wizards of the Coast, Hasbro and their respective authors. Keep in mind this story is neither yaoi/yuri nor fan character x canon character and is solely focused around my characters. I make no money on this.

* * *

**Prologue: Touch of War**

_Hammer 2nd, 1360 DR, Year of the Turret, Lake Mulsantir, Rashemen_

The tent was dimly lit. Outside stood only the finest of Mother Rashemen's berserkers, and with them women in black robes, their faces covered by masks. Witches. They were what remained of Sheva Whitefeather's finest _wychlaran_, the Halardrim word for "wise old women". Far into the older part of her life, her grey hairs and wrinkles were as much a part of her as were her robes, mask and staff. Other witches preferred to keep their young appearance through the use of their magic. Sheva held no such notions of vanity, considering her life to be like the aspects of the Triune Goddess herself - from Maiden to Mother and at last to Old One, passing from one mask to another. In Mulsantir, she was the highest-ranking witch, or "othlor", and thus held authority over all the other witches as well as the warriors.

Lot of good that did her. Sheva watched as the strong wind ripped at the tent doors, causing them to flap open. Rashemen's winters were always fierce, but there was something about this one that seemed almost hostile. Whether it was directed at the Rashemaar or their enemies camped just a bit to the south was anyone's guess. Mother Rashemen was unpredictable that way.

Brak Keldurr, the lord of Mulsantir, stood before everyone gathered. Two people were there in addition to him and Sheva, for they couldn't spare any more as it would make their enemies suspicious. The person of Brak's choice was Marcus, a relatively young warrior who had only recently joined the ranks of the berserkers, but was no less skilled than his peers. Sheva had taken note of the boy's excellent mind for tactics, and as the conversation progressed, she found herself impressed with the young man.

Still, her choice was the better as far as tactics were concerned, of that Sheva was convinced. The young blethran, the Rashemaar word for 'sisterkin', stood by her side, watching and listening as the two warriors argued. Intelligent though Marcus was, he still lacked the wisdom and subtlety that his sister, Vanya, possessed. While just recently made a wychlaran, and at the impressively young age of fourteen, Vanya was said to already exhibit many of the virtues expected of a witch – patience, a diplomatic approach with both people and spirits, and natural leadership skills. As disagreeable though her mass of black curls were - and she had yet to fully grow into her nose - Vanya's Maiden life was still quite potent. While Sheva had given the order to magically cloak this war council and make their enemies think that the actual war council was taking place in the army camp near Mulsantir, it had, in truth, been Vanya's idea.

Rashemen's situation was dire. A horde of Tuigan barbarians from the endless steppes to the east had invaded Thay, Rashemen's ancient enemy to the south, and taken its defenders completely by surprise. An alliance had been formed between the Tuigans and Thay's infamous Red Wizards, and the Tuigans had been magically transported north.

The first wave of barbarians had overwhelmed Citadel Rashemar in the mountain range separating Rashemen from the Endless Wastes. The second wave attacked north, near Immil Vale. While Sheva's and Brak's forces had meant to assist their kin, they had found themselves occupied with fending off an army of Thayans. Now one of Rashemen's harsh and unforgiving winters had kicked in, and the Thayan army was unable to move. The Rashemaar, on the other hand, were more accustomed to their homeland's cruelty, and the magic of the witches – a magic that was closely related to the land – allowed them to go where the Thayans could not. That didn't tell them what their next step should be, however, so a war meeting had been arranged. While everyone agreed that the enemy had to be defeated, it was another to agree upon _how_. Already tension was high between the two warriors.

"I still say that the best way to defeat the Thayans is to enclose them like a hand," Marcus argued, his face calm save for the tension in his eyes and the way his fingers twitched, "separate them from the Red Wizards, who will then be vulnerable to the spells of the wychlaran."

"They will be expecting that," Brak shot back, possessing the confidence of one who had weathered many Thayan attacks, "but what they will not be expecting is an army of spirits descending upon them."

"But that wouldn't be the first time Red Wizards have fought back the spirits of Rashemen," Marcus' voice was growing loud, but the magic of the witches prevented anyone outside the tent from overhearing, "for they haven't exactly sent novices and apprentices to fight us. Or did you fail to notice the extent of their power?"

"The extent of the power of the Red Wizards _never_ escapes my notice," Brak's fist connected with the table, his face now as red as the robes of his enemies, "or do you think I'm urphong for my physical strength alone?"

"A tactical mind can't be the reason," Marcus shot back dryly, earning a punch in the face that sent him crashing into the ground. Vanya ran to him, the first sign of any emotional reaction after her close encounter with a powerful Red Wizard. She knelt beside him and immediately began chanting the words of a minor spell of healing, one that did little except to ease Marcus' pain and prevent any serious damage. Even so, her reaction was a healthy one. Caring about one's family was a sign of good upbringing in Rashemen.

"Enough!" Sheva's voice called out, loudly and with authority, and Brak backed down, biting back the verbal comeback he'd meant to throw at the boy. Marcus too, seemed to have lost much of his bluster, looking properly ashamed. "We will get nowhere if we cannot agree on our next move. You have both come up with suggestions, now it's time for us to speak. Vanya, your thoughts?"

The young witch looked surprised and a little bit frightened at being asked so directly, but all the same, she rose from her crouching position and approached both the urphong and the othlor as if she was their equal. "My bro… Marcus suggested that we separate the army from the Red Wizards, and have the wychlaran engage them in battle. However, the Thayan army has camped in this particular area," she placed her finger on a part of the map that was just south of Mulsantir, "because they know that the magic of the land won't reach them. In the wake of the Godswar, many places in Rashemen are like this, preventing us wychlaran from weaving our magic. If we engage the Red Wizards there, it will be suicide." They all knew of what she spoke. Only two years ago, the gods had been forced to walk the earth as mortals. Some of them had died, mortals had ascended to become new deities, and magic had failed in many places across Faerûn. Brak flashed Marcus a triumphant smile, but Vanya wasn't finished. "That also goes for any spirits we summon. They will return to the land before they can even engage the enemy. While the Thayans cannot move against us, we are unable to move against them as well.

"In the meantime, the Tuigan barbarians are engaging our brothers and sisters to the north," she continued, "in Immil Vale. If our allies can't break the horde there, it will move south as soon as the snow melts, enclosing us like a giant maw as the Thayan army attacks us from the south. We will be forced to fight on two fronts, unable to defeat the Thayans due to the land's failing magic, and unable to defeat the Tuigans because of their sheer numbers." Sheva smiled behind her mask. The blethran was most shrewd. "If we are to have any hope of winning – of surviving – we must break the horde of Tuigan barbarians before they overwhelm our forces. We need to move north to Immilmar."

There was a moment of silence. Marcus looked at his sister as if he hadn't quite noticed her before, and Sheva was silently impressed. Brak, on the other hand, looked sceptical. "That will leave Mulsantir unprotected. If we head north, the Thayans will…"

"Remain in place," Sheva finished for him, drawing his attention to her once more, knowing that Vanya was more vulnerable and would require some support, "for they can't move anywhere with Mother Rashemen's fierce winter keeping them in place. We wychlaran can get you north, but we will have to move quickly if we are to defeat the Tuigans." Brak's hesitation showed, but Marcus was on his feet, all smiles as he placed a large hand on Vanya's shoulder, his support open for all to see.

"I'm in support of my sis… Vanya's idea," he said, despite the fact that such words were unnecessary. Already, much of Brak's hesitation was wearing away, and it was three against one. Had this been a council with all the warlords assembled, he might be able to garner some support from his berserkers. Now, however, he was up against two witches and a young upstart berserker who happened to be the youngest witch's brother. "The Thayans invested in this war only because they have the support of the Tuigans. If the Tuigans fail to conquer Rashemen, the Thayans will turn tail and flee. You know our enemy to the south far better than the rest of us. They've never been the type to attack Rashemen unless they had a solid plan first – or what they believed to be a solid plan." Knowing smiles were exchanged between the two berserkers, for many tavern jokes were made at the expense of the Red Wizards and their "unfailing plans" to conquer Rashemen.

"Very well," he replied, wondering if Marcus stood out in the crowd on his own merits or because Sheva had "helped" him. She was nothing if not sly. "Marcus, go tell the other warlords of the plan. Sheva, I trust that you and your protégé can fill in the other wychlaran on the plan?"

"Of course," Sheva said seriously, without the faintest smile or anything else hinting to a smug attitude. Again, Brak wondered if she had manipulated events or merely foreseen them and not told him anything. Perhaps he was to hold the Triune Goddess responsible as well if he was to accuse anyone of manipulation. He did know, however, that Sheva wasn't one to manipulate his decisions magically – no witch was, as it went against their ethos – so he pushed such thoughts aside and decided to trust her. "Come, Vanya, we have many preparations to make."

* * *

On the other side of the battlefield was the Thayan camp. Where the Rashemaar one consisted of easy, but subdued banter, witches healing injuries and berserkers keeping warm by moving around, the Thayan camp was filled with freezing orc warriors, an uneasy silence and Red Wizards clinging to layers of blankets in their respective tents. One such wizard was being tended to by a priest of Kossuth, the lord of flames. His worst injuries were being knitted together, and behind the priest stood two other Red Wizards, one frowning and the other smirking.

Once the most severe injuries were cured, the bald man glared up at his companions. "I trust you won't let Sheva Whitefeather get that close again?"

"It wasn't Sheva Whitefeather who almost burned you to a crisp," the frowning wizard replied dryly. He looked very unimpressed. "I believe the _girl_ who harmed you was only fourteen summers. I was surprised that someone so young would be ordained a witch. Well, until I saw her set fire to one of Szass Tam's most promising apprentices, that is." The injured wizard let out an angry snarl, but the frowning wizard remained unaffected. Zulkir Aznar Thrul had seen far worse. "I suggest you keep your snarling to yourself unless you wish to be burned again. You are only useful to your master as long as he thinks that you won't be bested by an adolescent witch." The injured wizard's angry scowl died away quickly, his skin growing so pale it matched the snow outside. Pleased, but knowing better than to push things too far, the zulkir hid his smirk and left.

"Master Thrul," a familiar female voice called out. The Red Wizard turned to see an apprentice to zulkir Yaphyll, Nadia, approach him. Only a year or two older than the aforementioned witch, she had still managed to become the leader of her own circle of diviners. "We've discovered the location of the Rashemi war council. As you predicted, the closest one was a fluke." Aznar nodded in agreement. He hadn't spent his life studying the Rashemi and their witches for nothing. "The real one was just recently finished, but from what we've understood of the situation, it seems they plan to go north."

"To Immilmar," Aznar finished for her. She nodded. "Very well. Gather our troops and inform the evokers to find a way through the snow. A contingent of Red Wizards under my command will launch a surprise attack on the Rashemi that will throw them into disarray and buy us some time. Also, take care to inform our allies to the north. Tam's forces will need to be properly prepared. Even with a surprise attack from our side, the Rashemi will move swiftly." While he wanted to find a way through the snow and ice, either by magic or force, Aznar knew that the task was impossible. The land protected itself, and the land wasn't very fond of Red Wizard magic. So far, the best they could do was sow some confusion and chaos among their enemies and hope that Tam's forces would be ready before they united.

"As you command, Master Thrul," Nadia replied and left. Being the finest diviner in her generation, Aznar wasn't the least bit surprised that she'd managed to see through the witches' trick. Of course, crystal balls and card readings weren't considered very prestigious among the Red Wizards, but divination served its purpose.

A shiver went through him, chilling him to the bone as a strong gust of wind struck the camp. Frowning, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and moved to where his tent was. He could hardly wait for this dreadful winter to pass and Rashemen to finally be under his control.

* * *

There was no warning. One minute Sheva and Vanya were in conference with their fellow witches, and the next shouts and yells came from the Rashemaar camp. Those sounds were followed up by blinding flashes of light, fire, ice and lightning as Aznar Thrul and a dozen Red Wizard evokers descended upon the berserkers. To say that Sheva was surprised would be an understatement. Why would the Red Wizards risk certain death by engaging their enemy in an area where the magic of the Witches ran deep and strong?

"Katja, take Vanya, the other blethrans and two hathrans of your choice to Immilmar," she ordered with a soft, yet firm tone, "and bring with you the contingent of berserkers prepared to move north. The rest of us will engage the Red Wizards." Katja, a middle-aged, plump woman with rosy cheeks, stayed rooted in place. _Perhaps that's not the best course of action_, she relayed telepathically. Behind her mask, Sheva looked at Katja incredulously. _Among the Red Wizards is the one known as Aznar Thrul. He knows our ways too well, even if divination is not his strong point_. Sheva resisted the urge to look at the younger witches, wondering if the Red Wizards had employed mind-reading magic upon them. She and Katja were protected from such, but the others not so. _Our magic helps keep the wizards at bay, but theirs is no less potent. It seems they've brought a highly talented diviner with them, for once, to keep watch on us_. Sheva nodded. That sounded indeed like Aznar's work. _Furthermore, while Aznar Thrul is a force to be reckoned with, he will expect us to separate and send our strongest against him_.

_Of course_, Sheva replied, _anything else would be irresponsible of us as othlors. If we cannot guard our young, our future, then we are unfit to serve and protect Mother Rashemen_.

_But if we separate here_, Katja shot back, _our forces will be cut in half and our assistance will look like a joke_.

_What's a greater joke is to send our young hathrans against a zulkir_. Sheva felt herself grow angry. Katja knew the importance of the battle to the north. _The lives of us old ones are unimportant in this matter, and while we will all see battle at the end of the day, it's better to send veterans against veterans. Besides, you will have Vanya with you_.

_You put a great deal of faith in that one_, Katja's mental voice said dryly despite her mask covering her face and hiding her emotions, _are you sure that's wise_?

_No-one is invincible_, Sheva reasoned, _but you shouldn't underestimate her just because she's young. Or did you fail to see her best a powerful Red Wizard just the other day_?

_I... no, Sheva_, Katja confessed, her hesitation obvious despite her next words. _I... will take the blethrans and two hathrans of my choice up north. You'd better be alive to join us later_.

Sheva smiled at Katja's concern and watched as she set to work, choosing two capable hathrans and ordering the blethrans to come with her. The othlor of Mulsantir then turned to what remained of her wychlaran and had them form a circle. Digging deep into the core of the soul of the land, they set to work weaving the ancient circle magic, or _spellmeld_. It was a wild, leaping dance that centred on an object of one of the four elements. In this case, a rock.

During their dance, that rock began to hum, as did several other rocks. Only those trained to the magic of the land could hear it, and the witches heard it well. So engrossed were the Red Wizards in their slaughter that they completely failed to notice the rocks and boulders leaping at them until it was too late. One managed to shatter the rock with a well-aimed lightning bolt, but the ones around him were smashed against the ground. Unsurprisingly, Aznar Thrul was smashing rocks left and right.

Cheers were heard from the beleaguered berserkers, but they were far too few in number. Sheva received a mental call from Katja that the army was moving north, so the othlor began a new spellmeld, cloaking them with powerful illusions and petitioning the land to grant them safe and swift passage.

Terrible magic took place next, summoned forth by Aznar and his evokers. Sheva could scarcely believe her eyes, for while she was quite accustomed to Red Wizard magic, she was shocked to discover that Aznar was willing to go to such lengths against only a handful of berserkers. Fire rained from the sky, burning warriors and hathrans who'd rushed to their side to heal them alike. Sheva and her witches countered that with magic of their own, bringing to bear spell shields and other protective magic.

For each spell that the Red Wizards summoned, the wychlaran were there to counter it. Burns were healed, damages repaired and powerful spirits summoned to harass and terrify the enemy. Even with all their efforts, however, many berserkers and hathrans died under the Red Wizard assault, and the best that the rest of them could do was to chase them away. It was with a heavy sigh that Sheva used what remained of her healing powers to patch up the hathran next to her. While there were many to tend to, it was easier to get to them the more witches they had. Some of them employed more powerful magic, bringing the dead back to life, but she was out of such spells for the day. All she could do was distribute healing potions and patch people up with bandages.

Sheva knew Aznar had gone easy on them. He was capable of far greater destruction, even in Rashemen. It had been an attempt to buy their own allies some time, nothing more. Time, however, was of the essence, for both sides. Considering the amount of dead and wounded, it would take the remaining forces days to catch up to the rest. She just hoped they would make it in time.

* * *

The trip north went by fast and with no incidents save a few cases of frostbite. Katja found her two chosen hathrans and Vanya to be invaluable in moving through the wilderness. The berserkers themselves, so accustomed to the wilds as they were, took care of the rest with skill and experience. Marcus and Brak proved especially effective at maintaining morale, working harder than the rest and setting an example for them. Vanya practically scried while walking.

"The battle goes poorly in Immil Vale," she informed Katja on the third day as they neared Immilmar. The witches had moved away from the main crowd to discuss what tactics to employ. "It seems Szass Tam has sent some of his finest necromancers to aid the Tuigans. They're employing their vile magic as we speak, but as to the nature of their spells, I cannot say."

Katja nodded. "I've tried contacting our sisters on the battlefield, but something is blocking us."

"Could it be the Red Wizards?" Galina, one of Katja's chosen hathrans, asked. An oddity among the wychlaran, with her honey-coloured hair, Galina was several years younger than the othlor, but still one of her best friends. A cold and bitter wind struck them and carried with it the stench of death. They didn't have much time left. In response to Galina's question, Katja shook her head.

"I think we've come across another part of the land where the magic has died," she reasoned, sensing how her fellow witches tensed up. "Vanya's scrying magic still works because we can still sense the spirits, but up ahead we will not. Inform your fellow wychlaran to be prepared with weapons rather than spells." These last words were spoken to the blethrans, who rushed off obediently. Katja then turned to Galina. "There are no enemies of Tuigan or Thayan descent up ahead, but monsters native to Mother Rashemen might attack us. Tell our scouts to be on their guard." Galina nodded and left. The only one left was Nina.

"What orders have you for me?" she asked with expectation and nothing else. Katja, having lived four decades and raised five daughters and two sons, fought in numerous battles against Thayans and malevolent spirits alike and travelled to places few dared tread, now allowed her military mind to take over in full.

"I want you to place at least two berserkers with each witch," she began, "and have our scouts ready to secure the perimeter. The creatures here know me best among all the witches gathered, so I will be up at the front with two berserkers of my choice should they wish to parley." Nina, despite having her face covered by a mask, looked hesitant. "I can handle myself in a fight better than most witches," Katja reminded her, backing up her words by flipping out her shortspear and pointing it in Nina's face before she could even draw her own dagger. "Stick with your berserkers and stay alert." A simple, somewhat frightened nod was the only reply before she took off.

Another strong wind struck her, causing her to shiver despite the warm clothes she wore. How many berserkers and witches would die for Thayan ambition? How many Thayans would die for Red Wizard ambition? Katja knew she stood out among her fellow witches in that she didn't hate the Thayan warriors like they did. It was always the Red Wizards, holding the leash and forcing their people to move at their whim, who deserved the blame. A soft sigh escaped her lips. How she tired of all these ceaseless battles. Couldn't the Red Wizards find something else to do with their time?

This was neither the time for pity or surrender, however, so Katja rejoined her fellows and found her spot at the front of the army. Their long trek through the land of dead magic was about to begin.

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**Author's Note:** This here is the story I once intended to submit to Wizards of the Coast for publishing. Naturally, due to the Spellplague and the 4th edition, I had to put it on the shelf. I found myself incapable of forgetting it, however, and so I decided to post it online as a fanfiction. Any feedback or critique is more than welcome, and flames will be used for barbeque purposes.

Special thanks to BatPhace and BATTLEFAIRIES for their tireless reading and reviewing. Also special thanks to draa001 and many other visual artists on dA for their beautiful visual representations of my characters.

**A Title Explanation:** This was originally intended to be a trilogy, with Tales of Rashemen being the trilogy title. Maiden is the title of the first book and Childhood is the title of the first part of Maiden.


	2. Chapter 1: Humble Beginnings

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the fan characters mentioned within this story, as well as the overall story concept. Anything else belongs to Wizards of the Coast, Hasbro and their respective authors. Keep in mind this story is neither yaoi/yuri nor fan character x canon character and is solely focused around my characters. I make no money on this.

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**Chapter 1: Humble Beginnings**

_Kythorn 16, 1350 DR, Year of the Morningstar, Tinnir village_

He was a good distance away from the village, on a small road that led to a larger one that locals called The Golden Way. All sorts of merchants from the faraway lands of Kara-Tur came by that road, trading in strange fabrics and spices and speaking in even stranger tongues. They usually stopped in Mulsantir, but some of them would occasionally take a little side-trip to Tinnir. He was one such merchant. While a common enough sight in the Shou trade caravan, in Rashemen his slanted eyes, yellow skin and short stature made him stand out like a sore thumb.

He was forced to make a stop when his wagon got stuck in some stubborn mud. Getting off, he bent down to check how deep the wheels were stuck. His attention was soon drawn to a small figure lying awfully still off the side of the road. Right in the middle of the mud, too. While local business was something he usually stayed out of, and he was always wary of bandit tricks, he'd taken it upon himself to learn as much as he could about Rashemen during his long travels through the Endless Wastes, and as such, he felt very safe in this country. No local would even think of robbing him out of fear of punishment from the witches. That, and if this was an injured Rashemaar child, they wouldn't look kindly upon him for ignoring it. Besides, it was too close to the village for it to be a trick from one of those shape-shifting creatures, the uthraki.

Stepping up to the small form, he asked the thing, in rather broken Rashemi, if it was all right. There was no reaction, so he tried shaking it awake. A small groan could be heard from it, so he turned it over on its back, finally noticing that it was a boy, and a very muddy one at that. No doubt Rashemaar, judging from the black hair, but he seemed to have some southern blood in his veins as well. His nose, for example, was too big to belong to a full-blooded Rashemaar, and his skin colour was darker than that of the pale-faced locals. When his eyes fluttered open, they were of a dark brown colour, not sky blue. Still, there was something distinctly Rashemaar about him, which made the merchant wonder what he was doing off the side of the road, in the mud of all places. The merchant inwardly cringed when he saw the black eye, swollen from what had to have been a seriously harsh beating, the broken nose and dried blood on his chin.

"Are you all right?" he asked in his appalling Rashemi, and his lack of linguistic skills did not go unnoticed by the boy, who scrunched his face up in confusion. The merchant had to bite back a sigh as he repeated the words as slowly as he could.

"It hurts," the boy replied slowly, and let out a groan when he tried to move, his face twisted in pain. While the merchant wasn't in the habit to generally worry about the rest of the world, he did care enough to lift the boy out of the mud and carry him over to the wagon.

"Don't touch merchandise," he warned before placing him down on some blankets that could afford to get dirty. An indignant look came to the boy's face.

"I'm not a thief!" He looked thoroughly insulted and, despite his obvious pain, he actually tried to leave the wagon. "I am Rashemaar, I will not steal!"

"No," the merchant said and shook his head, surprised by this boy's resilience and willingness to defy his own pain, "I mean you are muddy. I need clean merchandise to sell." Mostly because he was selling rice, silk and spices. He couldn't afford stomach-aches among his customers. His explanation seemed to calm the boy down, who grumpily muttered an apology. The merchant shrugged. "Apology accepted. What happened?"

"I got beaten up," the boy confessed with heavy reluctance, a look of shame on his face. The merchant reckoned he was no older than five. Still, being physically abused was a great shame for any man of any age. "My right arm, stomach and knees hurt the most, but my face hurts too." Naturally enough to the merchant, who merely shook his head.

"You win your fights once you are strong man," he said to reassure the child, but when that earned him an angry glare, he found himself dumbfounded. Before he could ask, the boy opened his mouth to yell at him.

"I'm a girl!"

A very long and awkward silence followed. The merchant stared at the dirty child in open-mouthed shock. A girl? This child? That couldn't be. Girls didn't get beaten up and left in the mud to rot, nor did they wear boys' clothing. Where were her parents amidst all of this?

"I-I'm sorry," he managed to say before adding, "but if you're girl, why wear clothes for boys?" She blinked in surprise, apparently unable to understand the question. "Girl should wear dress or skirt, not shirt and..."

"These are the only clothes I've got," she said with such utter sincerity that the merchant almost fell off the wagon in shock. While he was accustomed to Shou women who learned and mastered martial arts better than most men, and knew that the Rashemaar were very egalitarian, there were some things you simply didn't _do_. Boys' clothes were probably more practical when playing, but a girl should look like a girl, at least in his opinion.

"Where is healer?" One problem at a time. The girl raised her good arm and pointed at Tinnir. Nodding, the merchant then focused on his next problem, which was the wagon.

"Do you need help?" the girl asked, which made him let out a small laugh. When that laughter was followed up by awkward silence he looked up, noticing she was being sincere. "With the horse, I mean. I'm no good for pushing, but I've worked in the local stables since I was three. Besides, my legs still work, so I can do it." The Shou pondered the unusual offer for a while before agreeing. Despite her earlier bravado, however, she still needed help getting off the wagon. She moved slowly when she walked towards the horse, not wincing once despite how her legs trembled with each step. She was a tough little girl, that much was certain.

The merchant's horse was an ageing, but tough gelding who'd been with him since he left the Endless Wastes. He was quite accustomed to humans, including the miniature ones, so when the little girl came to say hello, he greeted her with a snort and took his time to smell her. Since there was no fear to sense in her and only a warm kindness radiating off of her, he approved and let her take the reins. He did try snapping his head back to see whether or not she'd lose her grip, but when she didn't, even held firm with her feet planted thoroughly on the ground, the gelding grew to respect her.

Having earned the horse's trust and respect, Vanya clicked her tongue and pulled at the reins with her good hand to get the horse moving. Between the gelding pulling and the merchant pushing, they eventually managed to free the wagon. This didn't go as smoothly as the Shou man had hoped, however, as mud was splattered on his clothes and face. He coughed and spat, his eyes screwed shut in discomfort. It definitely wasn't his day. Pearly laughter reached his ears and he opened his eyes, realising that the Rashemaar girl was actually laughing at him. At first he felt offended, but then the realisation of how ridiculous he had to look hit him with full force. Laughter escaped his lips as well, and he stepped up to the gelding, freeing the girl's hand by taking the reins in his own.

"What your name is?" he asked with that same smile, finding he very much enjoyed the sound of her laughter. It certainly beat seeing her all hurt and angry.

"Vanya," she replied with big, happy eyes that suited her well. "What's yours?"

"Róng Yŏu Lè." The merchant fully expected a confused look and a butchered version of his name to escape her lips, but instead she just smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Róng Yŏu Lè," she said, surprising him when she not only managed a perfect pronunciation of the consonants, but even got the intonation right, "and welcome to Rashemen." He blinked in surprise and then he returned the smile. "What does your name mean? Mine means 'the gods are gracious'."

"That's good name," he said, genuinely impressed. Vanya smiled as they walked next to the each other, leading the wagon towards Tinnir. "My name mean 'form of happy friend'." She offered a simple nod as a response. "Get back in wagon? Your legs tremble, not good." There was a moment's hesitation, but she obeyed. He did his best to help her get up in the driver seat, and then he sat down next to her.

Getting past the berserker guard stationed near the village was easy enough with Vanya there to vouch for him. The berserker looked concerned for her, even sent someone to get the local witch. There was a bit of chaos as he searched for a suitable spot for his merchant stall, but Vanya helped him find one close enough to the stables. She also promised to look after his gelding for him as he sold his wares. Before any more promises could be made, however, the hathran arrived.

The shouts of merchants and chatter of villagers became a subdued mutter. Some people went quiet altogether. Clearing the road to make room for her, the villagers stared at the masked woman with a mix of awe and fear. It was a well-known fact that a hathran possessed the power to reduce a man to a pile of dust, but she could also bring a dead person back to life. As such, the wychlaran were both feared and loved, as they not only served as healers and protectors of Rashemen, but also kept the peace with the spirits. Róng Yŏu Lè had heard the rumours, but to witness the deference paid to the witch in question was something else entirely. She was short of stature, by Rashemaar standards that was, and of a frail build, but she was practically radiating power and authority. This was a woman who would give even the most bigoted Shou man pause.

For those men who feared women in power, believed they would abuse it and were ignorant to the ways of Rashemen, the hathran would represent everything they feared. They would let their bigotry get the better of them and probably refuse to acknowledge her, maybe even outright insult her. Róng Yŏu Lè was not one such man - mostly thanks to his wife. Amidst everything else the witch radiated was kindness. He could sense it in the way she looked at people, despite the fact that she was wearing a mask, and in the way Vanya behaved towards her. She didn't cringe in fear, but instead smiled happily and was eagerly awaiting her arrival.

"Vanya again?" the hathran's melodic voice asked once she was close enough to be heard. There was a merriment in her voice and sparkle in her eye that witnessed more of amusement than frustration. "Surely we must get you a magical necklace that can heal you or you will exhaust our resources."

"That would be helpful," Vanya said, deadpan and without a moment's hesitation. Róng Yŏu Lè blinked in surprise, as did the hathran. Practically everyone in the nearby vicinity grew quiet, even the merchants who'd been eagerly hawking their wares. The little girl grinned, earning a surprised smile from the witch and laughter from the Shou man. The tension in the air lifted immediately. What an interesting child!

"I hear you're the one who found her," the hathran said once her smile had died down, her attention now on him. He bowed in show of proper respect, as he would any person of authority back home.

"It was my pleasure," he began as he straightened, "as she helped me and is very kind." The hathran looked completely unaffected.

"You are from Shou Lung, correct?" It was more of a statement than a question, but he replied "yes" to it all the same. "How long do you plan on staying?" He had fully expected this question.

"I need sell silk, spice and rice," he replied, and while Mulsantir held a bigger market for that, the competition was also greater. In addition, he simply couldn't afford to travel further. "Once I have enough, I leave. Should be about one month, at most." The hathran nodded.

"You will no doubt need new horseshoes for your gelding as well," she reasoned, to which he offered a simple nod. "You're in luck. Tinnir is small and rarely visited by merchants from your country, so your wares should have no trouble selling. We're especially fond of Shou rice here." While she didn't smile, her demeanour was in no way unwelcoming. "Obey the laws here and you will get no trouble." Then she crouched before Vanya and set to healing her. Careful and authoritarian, but without being inhospitable. That was Róng Yŏu Lè's first impression of the hathrans, and it was quite a pleasant one.

Vanya was a lot more energetic once she'd been fully healed, but grimaced when the hathran told her to take a bath. The Shou chuckled at the many smart comments she made, but in the end he too insisted she bathe. That seemed to win her over and she trudged towards her home quietly and with a subdued attitude.

Róng Yŏu Lè needed a bath too, so he was quite happy when the hathran offered up one of her berserkers to stand guard by his wagon. He wasn't sure whether this was a courtesy granted to all merchants or if he was a special case, but he wasn't about to complain.

* * *

Despite her willingness to obey the hathran and the kind stranger, going home wasn't tempting, even if it was to take a bath. Vanya moved tentatively, her eyes going left and right in fearful anticipation of an attack. She felt like a skittish dear, but it was a natural defence mechanism after being subjected to years of bullying. The last thing she wanted was to go back to the hathran for more healing. She would ask questions, and since it was wrong to lie to a witch, Vanya would be obligated to tell the truth. That would lead to trouble with her foster family, who were not above throwing her out or locking her up in the barn. The barn, especially, was a scary place. Vanya hated it there.

"There you are," the woman known as "mother" to the other children called out. Vanya stared at her in wide-eyed fear. Efimiia Akimov was a tall woman too much on the plump side, even by the standards of Rashemaar farmers. Her puffed-up cheeks were due to over-indulgence rather than anger, and her small eyes squinted as they took in the dirty little girl on her doorstep. "Got yourself in trouble again? Didn't I tell you not to pick fights with the other children?"

"Yes, Efimiia," Vanya replied in a subdued tone, knowing better than to argue with the woman, "I'm sorry." At this point, she was so accustomed to apologising for something she hadn't done that the words slipped past her lips automatically.

"Well, I won't let you into the house all muddy as you are," Efimiia said as she grabbed an apple and began chewing on it. Vanya's stomach growled with hunger. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. "Go take a bath in the tub, and then you can eat." For a moment Vanya thought Efimiia meant the tub they used indoors, which was warm and clean. She blinked in surprise, for unlike the other children, Vanya was rarely allowed in it. The woman pointed towards the large wooden tub next to the barn, however, which was filthy. Vanya's face fell. Of course. To Efimiia, Vanya was as much worth to her as the animals. No, less so. The fact that she was allowed to use the tub near the barn would no doubt be considered a privilege in the woman's eyes.

Vanya wanted to tell the woman just exactly what she could do with that wooden tub, but her stomach growled again and she almost fainted. Efimiia stepped back inside without a word and closed the door, locking it.

The tub was as filthy and disgusting as the girl remembered. Naturally, she would have to run to the nearby river to get water, too, and since she wasn't allowed inside, that meant bathing in cold water. Realising this, Vanya decided not to waste time on the tub and instead headed straight for lake Tirulag. Only during summer could any Rashemaar bathe in that cold lake, as it would freeze over during winter and was simply too cold during spring and autumn. Should anyone try to bathe there during such a time, they would most likely freeze to death. Still, if the only other option was to spend hours filling the tub only to bathe in cold water _anyway_, Vanya would rather just bathe in the lake.

The first step was to give an offering to the spirits, so they'd let her bathe. Seeing as she had nothing on her person other than the clothes on her back, she offered up a sock and a boot and hoped it would be enough. Sensing no hostility in the air around her, Vanya then stepped into the lake, at the shallows. Even during summer the cold water chilled her to the bone and made her tremble. It took her several long minutes just to get used to the temperature shift, and it didn't help that she had to go through the same freezing ritual with each step. The hair on her body stood on ends and she hugged herself tightly, but still she kept going. Her teeth rattled and her body trembled, and not even splashing water on her upper body to adjust to the temperature helped much. Despite all this, she persisted until she could dip her hair into the water.

She had no soap or scrub, so she was stuck cleaning herself with her hands and fingernails to get all the mud off. It seemed to take forever, and even after the worst of it was gone she still felt filthy. Getting out of the water again, she trembled, letting the warm air dry her up, slowly but surely. She then sifted through her clothes and put them on, noticing that one sock and one boot was missing. Treading back on one bare foot and one booted, even dressed she had to hug herself to keep from shivering too much.

"What are you doing?" demanded a high-pitched voice that Vanya knew all too well. Her head turned to face Darya, her foster sister. Brown eyes met sky blue and the five-year old was subjected to more disapproval. She was too tired to care. "Do you think you're some kind of animal? Where's your boot and sock? Mother will never let you back in like this, you know, and she certainly won't buy you any new clothes." Then came the predictable act of sticking her nose high in the air. "I can't believe she puts up with a half-breed runt like you anyway. It's obvious which side of the border your mother found most attractive." Vanya didn't so much as slow down. She was used to the insults, both about herself and her mysterious mother who was said to be long dead. "Children of traitors deserve no better treatment than _this_!" Vanya ducked instinctively, already aware of what was heading in her direction. The tiny rock missed barely, sizzling past her ear. If Darya was discouraged with her miss, she didn't show it. Instead she grabbed more and started hurling them after her, one at a time. Vanya kept walking, not giving Darya the pleasure of driving her on a run, and bit down on her lower lip to silence any screams.

Not long after the rock throwing began, it stopped. Darya let out a surprised yelp, which in turn surprised Vanya. She turned around only for a rock to hit her in the eye. Cringing in pain, Vanya stumbled backwards, covering her eye with her hand and sniffling. Even now she didn't call out.

"You fool," Darya shouted triumphantly, "that's the oldest trick in the book and you fell for it." Her mocking laughter stung more than any of the rocks she'd thrown. Vanya felt hot liquid on her hand and realised she was bleeding. There was no time to waste now, and while she was dizzy with pain, she turned and ran in the direction of the hathran. She could put up with a lot, but losing a body part was where she drew the line. "You think you can escape? I can catch up with you easily and-" Her tirade ended in a scream. Vanya froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Darya never screamed. Turning back around, Vanya's good eye widened when she saw the transparent, shimmering form that kept Darya pressed tightly against the ground. It was large and resembled a bear. It took Vanya five long seconds to realise that she was actually looking at a spirit. A real spirit, one closely tied to the land. Only those gifted with the Sight were capable of such a thing.

At first, Vanya's heart soared. Rashemaar girls gifted in such a way were bound to be taken away by the witches for testing. According to the tales told to her by the berserkers, those who passed that test would then be taken in for training. They might even become witches one day. Vanya had never dared consider the possibility that she could one day escape her lot in life, but now that door was wide open. No more rocks thrown at her, no more being left outside to bathe in ice cold water and more importantly – no more name-calling.

Then came the doubt. She was only half Rashemaar, the other half allegedly Thayan. Would the witches even bother to test her, and if they did, would they ever approve of her and accept her among their ranks? Their judgement was closely tied with the behaviour of the spirits of Rashemen, and if they disapproved of her, what then? She was suddenly at a loss. There was a spirit crushing Darya under its weight and Vanya could see it. No matter how she looked at her situation, if she didn't stop the spirit, she'd get punished.

"Stop," she said to the spirit. It didn't even react, at first, so she repeated herself. "Stop crushing her. Please." There was a moment's pause, and then the bear turned its transparent head to look at her. The surprise was quite evident in its eyes.

"You can see me?" the bear asked, the sound of its voice and the realisation that it could speak making Vanya jump in fear and surprise. Her heart leaped into her throat, for while she was thrilled to know she could see the spirit, it was another to communicate with it. She stayed rooted to the spot, though, and offered the bear a nod in response. "Why do you want me to stop? Did she ever stop when she bullied you?" Vanya hesitated, and the spirit took her silence as a sign to continue. "You told her to do so, and countless times. Begged her, even. Did she show you mercy?" Her momentum crashed. There was an undeniable truth to what the spirit said. Darya had never ceased in her abuse, so perhaps there was a bit of justice to this. "What do you owe her, the woman she calls mother, let alone the townspeople? They call you a 'filthy half-breed' and treat you with disdain. The only one to show you any kindness today was a foreigner." Vanya's lip trembled and a lump formed in her throat. It wasn't surprising to her that the spirit had witnessed that, but it hurt to have it repeated to her. Nobody in the village cared about her. This was a fact.

_No_. There were people who cared about her. Marcus, Daniil, the hathran and several of the berserkers. There weren't a lot of them, but they existed. Her hands clenched into stubborn fists and she gave the spirit bear a determined – albeit bloody – stare.

"No," she began, "there aren't many who care about me. If anything, they'd all want to see me dead. I'm an abomination in their eyes, something they can't abide." The pressure on Darya increased. She let out a choking sound, her hand trembling. "But there are people who do. Marcus, Daniil, the hathran and the berserkers... if anyone has a reason to hate me, it's the warriors and witches who have fought against Thayans, but they don't." The bear looked at her expectantly. "So long as there are people like that in this place, I can find happiness here. Even with the warts."

"Just... who are you calling... a wart?" Darya managed to choke out. She, too, could see spirits, bragged about it constantly, in fact. Vanya was surprised the hathrans hadn't taken her in for testing.

"You," came Vanya's deadpan response, earning a glare from the older girl. Seeing as Darya was currently stuck under the form of a spirit bear, Vanya was far from intimidated. "As well as other people, but they're not here so I will not mention their names." A surprised look came to the spirit bear's eyes, for it'd often heard the people of the village speak of Vanya when she wasn't present, and rarely in a positive light. "Now could you stop crushing her, please? As a spirit of the land, are you not meant to protect us anyway?" There was a moment's silence and then the bear obeyed, rolling off of the bigger girl and getting back up on all four legs. Darya coughed and pushed herself up on trembling arms, but seeing as she wasn't coughing up blood, it didn't seem as if she'd been gravelly injured. The bear looked from Darya to Vanya and then turned to leave. Darya openly glared at them both.

"I do hope for your sake you won't regret this," it said as its farewell and trudged off.


End file.
